


Omega Demon

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam Winchester, Demon Dean Winchester, First Time, M/M, Omega Dean, POV First Person, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-10 01:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17416088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: Sam has finally located his demon brother.  Now, he just needs to get him cured before Dean kills him or escapes from him.  Or seduces him.Or all of the above.





	1. Before the Cure

**Author's Note:**

> I really love Demon Dean stories, but I've never come across one where Dean is an omega. I thought that might make for a fascinating dynamic, so here we are. Hope it's an entertaining read.

Sam's POV:

1.

He's perched at a piano, picking out a tune with one hand, the other resting atop the instrument, near a glass of whiskey. His expression is bored, almost weary, but even from across the empty bar, I can see the coldness in his eyes. This is not the man who sold his soul to bring me back to life, made a deal with Death to retrieve my soul from hell, killed his best friend to save me, placed my life before his again and again and again.

Still.

He's alive. Intact. The deep voice that greets me does not waver. The feet that carry him close to me do not falter. His jeans, black tee, unbuttoned red shirt move over a body that is as lean and muscular as ever. His face. It's hard to look at his face and a demon peering back at me. But his cheekbones are high, his jaw defined, his lips full, his eyes vividly green . . . . He's beautiful. No less gorgeous than he appeared before he left me to face Metatron. Before he was stabbed. Before I carried his lifeless body home. Before Crowley made off with him. Before. I close my eyes, shudder.

He's asking how I plan to get him to come home with me.

I hold up the demon cuffs.

He raises an eyebrow. "Kinky." He saunters closer, purrs, "Are you sure you're alpha enough to put those on me?"

Another step and I'm enveloped in omega pheromones. Apple, cinnamon, caramel. Also, the distinctly Dean scents of leather and gun oil. And, to remind me he's now a demon, there's a faint whiff of sulfur. That additive should be repulsive, but instead it adds an enticing hint of danger to his aroma. (I was once addicted to blood that smelled of sulfur). My eyes drop shut as I breathe in. When I open them, the world has taken on a red tinge, my jeans have grown tight, my heart is thundering.

"Hmm." Dean cocks his head, smirks. "I always knew you were into me, Sammy." He slinks into my personal space, looks up at me through thick lashes with eyes that are more gold than green.

I feel a little dizzy. Maybe because there isn't a whole lot of blood left in my brain. Wasn't I supposed to be doing something? Something other than rubbing my thumb over his stubble?

A hand grasps my free one, slides free the object I have clasped, throws it. Clunk. Clatter. The handcuffs! I pull away, shaking my head in an attempt to clear it. The hand that stole my cuffs rises to my head, runs through my tangled hair. "You don't need those," he whispers, warm breath tickling my ear. Warm chest almost touching my own. Warm fingers dancing across my bicep. What don't I need?

Wet. Heat. A slight sharpness. He's nibbling on my ear. More scents accost me. Whiskey. Smoke. Cherry pie. Beta girl. I growl softly, my nails dig into his back. When did I wrap my arms around him?

The mouth disappears from my earlobe. A chuckle blows into my ear canal. "Smell something you don't like brother?" Lips slide down my cheek. "Did it make you jealous? She was incredible." He whispers this last sentence against my mouth.

My control shatters. I fist his shirt, yank him flush against my body, attack his mouth. He responds in kind. Kissing is too sweet, too benign a word for what we're doing. This is a duel; this is a wrestling match with our lips.

A hard push and I'm on my back, winded, staring up at my beautiful assailant. He winks, divests himself of his clothing in a whir of demon-fast movement. He's naked. My brother is naked in front of me. Pale, freckled skin. Wide shoulders. Bowed legs. Slightly rounded stomach. I've only gotten brief glimpses before. And is my brain short-circuiting?

It must be.

He's unbuttoning, unzipping my pants, pulling down my boxers. Straddling my hips, sinking down onto my rapidly swelling knot. Hot, wet, tight. Did I just scream? He's bouncing on me. I'm thrusting back. Is this a djinn dream? 

Dean bobs, swivels, throws his head back, moans. His thin, milky omega release sprays my flannel. Slick gushes over my knot, dribbles onto my pubes. In answer, my knot expands to its fullest extent, tying us together. My guttural roar sounds very much like "Dean!"

I collapse against the floor, breathing heavily. I really just had sex with my gorgeous omega brother. The man I've been in love with since . . . .

"Well, I can see why your very few sexual partners always look so satisfied." Dean's drawl interrupts my train of thought. "Quite the equipment you've got there." His green eyes are relaxed but cool. Indifferent.

Because he's a demon. Right. I had sex with my DEMON brother. Instead of cuffing him so I take him home to get cured. And I have no way of reaching said cuffs because I allowed him to throw them across the room. I rub one hand over my face. What a mess!

There's a tug on my knot. Dean is reaching for the clothes he dropped carelessly a couple feet away. He pulls a pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter out of his jacket pocket, shakes one out, lights it.

I gape. Didn't he quit years ago? "When?" I sputter. "Why?"

A laugh. "The great thing about being a demon, Sammy, is that I'm free to indulge my vices. Drinking." He gestures at the bar. "Smoking." He takes a deep drag. "Sex." He wriggles on my knot, causing tendril of pleasure to shoot through me. I gasp. "Violence." His eyes flash black, his voice turns deep, cruel. Involuntarily, my eyes drop to the angry, red Mark on his forearm. He follows my gaze, grips it, hiding the ancient sigil from my sight.

"We can . . . we can get rid of the Mark. After you're cured." I can feel my eyes widening into what Dean--old Dean--referred to as my puppy dog look.

He rolls his eyes, inhales another lungful of smoke, sighs in obvious enjoyment. "You know, I only quit because I got sick of your whining."

I flinch. "This is the demon talking."

"Is it?'

My knot chooses this moment to spurt more seed into Dean's channel. Pleasure zings through me. My eyes fall shut.

I hear another icy chuckle. "Allow me to enhance that." 

I start to inquire "What?" but before I can get the word out, soft lips descend on mine, warm smoke floods my mouth. I inhale reflexively. Nicotine hits my lungs, ignites my mini-orgasm. Riding the waves, I tilt my head back to blow the smoke out.

"Not so straitlaced as you pretend, eh, Sammy?" My brother sounds both bored and amused. 

My face burns. I mutter, "I went to college." It's true: Jess and I shared the occasional post-coital smoke. I don't mention a lonely eleven-year-old boy pilfering cigarettes in a desperate, pitiful effort to imitate his tall, buff, deadly, awesome older brother. My flirtation with smoking didn't last long anyway. Soon after, Dean presented as an omega and, instead of wanting to be like him, I longed to protect him, to take care of him, to do things to him I only barely understood. I began to dream of a life free from hunting. Cigarettes were pointless in that endeavor; studying was not.

"Ah, here we go."

I look up. Dean is carefully lifting himself off my deflating knot. He dresses with the same unnatural swiftness he used to strip. "Now, where were we?" Black eyes turn to me.

I scramble to my feet, zip my pants, race to pick up the handcuffs.

Crash! A smoke bomb. (Of all things).

I grab the cuffs, run outside. Our interloper is the obsessed vet who kidnapped me a few days ago. Hmm. Maybe his interference will be enough of a distraction for me to capture my brother.

I'm more determined than ever to cure him.

2.

We're coming up on the fourth hour of the long process of Dean's cure. He's staring expressionlessly at me. By this point in his cure, Crowley began chattering incessantly, a sign that the purified blood was calling forth emotions his demonic nature had buried. Dean might as well be a statue. The world's most beautiful, most lethal, most beguiling omega.

Except. He's not completely still. The fingers on his left hand beat out an erratic rhythm; the fingers on his right rub together, unconsciously begging to hold a smoke. He allowed himself to become addicted. (Re-addicted?--Is there a word for that?)

"Enjoying the view?" He raises an eyebrow.

I rally myself. "I'll enjoy it much more when you're human again."

"Yes, when I'm angsting over seducing my baby brother." His eyes are as emotionless as shards of green glass. "Human me does like to wallow in self-hatred." A smirk. "I spent so much time worrying that I'd corrupted you when I should have realized that you were already corrupt." He shakes his head. "All those incestuous feelings."

I know that he's deliberately trying to hurt me, but that doesn't make his words sting any less. Of course I'm aware that lusting after my brother is only further proof of my freakishness, my uncleanness. Beep. Beep. Beep. My watch chirps. Oh, good. It's time for Dean's next injection.

I pick up the syringe and move over to him. His unblinking eyes never leave mine. His hands clench the armrests. A hint of fear, perhaps? Maybe his screams after being injected are the result of real pain, not dramatics.

"Do something for me first?" His tone is impassive. But his voice is quieter than it was a moment ago.

"What?" I pause warily by his knee.

"Kiss me." He raises his eyebrows.

I'm incredulous. "We just finished talking about how corrupt my incestuous feelings are."

He shrugs. "I'm a demon. Corruption is my forte." His sweet omega scent wafts over to me. "You're a good kisser. I could use a distraction from the pain." He inclines his head toward the needle in my hand.

I hesitate, trying not to study his plump pink lips.

His voice lowers; his scent intensifies. "I bet you could use a distraction from pain, too. Jarred that arm pretty well when catching me, didn't you?"

I did. I've already taken as much pain reliever as I can while staying sharp. 

Golden streaks stripe his green irises. The heady aroma of omega arousal spins my head. "Just one kiss."

What can it hurt? I will never get another chance. I lean down, press my lips to his. Sparks fly through my body, kindling a fire within me. I grab his head, press a close to him as I can get when he's tied to a chair, deepen the kiss. His mouth opens beneath mine. The fire burns hotter, fiercer. My mouth fills with blood. 

I jump backward. He must have bitten his tongue. Deliberately. The flavor bursts around my taste buds. Iron. Sulfur. Blazing rivets that must be from the purified blood. Dean. There's something uniquely Dean about the flavor. I swallow. Power surges through my body. Even partly healed, humanized, this blood is stronger than Ruby's. Addiction sinks its claws into me. No.

"Now I won't be the only one suffering from withdrawal." He sounds smug.

I slam the blood-filled needle into his skin.

3.

A shadow swings in my peripheral vision. Reflexively, I duck, press the demon knife to the neck of my attacker. Oh. It's Dean. Of course, it's Dean. He's the one trying to kill me.

Human enough to escape from the demon cuffs, not human enough to feel any love, compassion, empathy. Only hate.

"Do it," he jeers. He tilts his head, bearing his smooth, unmarked neck.

Do what? I'm torn in three directions: 

One part wants to drive that knife straight through his neck, killing him, ending his suffering. Afterwards, I can kill myself. Maybe we still share a heaven. If not, maybe Crowley will let us share a hell. 

One part wants to nick his artery, drink my fill of his hot, pumping blood. I can see, almost hear, the pounding of his pulse. There's still enough demon in his blood to sate my thirst, to give me power. I can smell it. 

One part wants to bite into that pale flesh, to claim this omega as mine. My mate. I can feel my fangs nudging my gums, ready to descend. His scent swirls around me. It must be so strong where his neck meets his shoulder. I at least want to bury my nose in that spot.

I can't kill my brother. I can't disappoint him (the real him) by feeding my addiction. I can't betray him by claiming him against his will.

I lower the knife.

At least, I'll be killed by the person I love most in the world. His will be the last hands to touch me. His beautiful face the last thing I see.

His eyes turn black as he pounces. 

He never gets to me. He's stopped. By Castiel. When did the angel get here? Why do I feel almost disappointed? 

Doesn't matter. I rub my aching arm--this has likely pushed my healing back by a week--follow Cas to the dungeon. My steps lighten as it hits me that Castiel's arrival means we've won. We will complete the cure. We will get my brother back.

Dean will be Dean again.


	2. After

Dean's POV:

1.

I'm warm and comfortable and content. Soft, yielding mattress. Clean, cool sheets. Cozy blanket. Fluffy pillow. Familiar scents. Home. I'm waking up in my room in the Bunker, on my memory foam mattress, after sleeping for the first time in weeks. Because I'm human again. With human vulnerabilities. Human needs. My stomach rumbles, reminding me of another one. Strange to feel hungry again. For food anyway. Other hungers plagued demon me plenty.

Not all of them are gone.

My fingers feel around the bedside table for a pack of cigarettes that isn't there. Because of course it isn't there. Human me hasn't smoked for eight years. Granted, my body doesn't know that. Based on the pangs of withdrawal snaking through me. And the temptation whispering to me. My pack is in my jacket pocket. I know because I snuck a smoke while stalking Sam around the Bunker (I shudder at the memory) and another one just before bed. Maybe one more wouldn't hurt? No. That's the addiction talking. I clench my fists.

At least, the Mark seems to be sated at the moment. The urge to locate Sam and bash his brains in, finishing the job started yesterday, exists as little more than a dull throb, easily ignored. For now. I won't be able to avoid slaking it with murder and/or violence forever. Especially when stabbing, punching, shooting, throttling feel so exhilarating. And, that's another addiction talking. I roll my eyes at myself.

A different need, longing, desire pulls at me. My sheets smell faintly but distinctly of alpha--alpha musk accented with tinges of books, coffee, grass. Sam must have washed them, smoothed them over my bed. Leaving his strong, soothing, arousing (wait, what?) scent everywhere. How long have I been rolling around, pressing my nose into different spots, unconsciously seeking more Sam aroma? How long have I been mindlessly thrusting against the mattress? How long have I been slick and loose?

And, perhaps more importantly, why? Sure, I'm aware of Sam's attractiveness--I've seen the way omegas react to him (although the betas nearly always prefer me)--but I've never responded to his scent this way. He's always smelled of baby brother to me, inspired feelings of protectiveness, responsibility. Not lust. Not until I was a demon incapable of familial bonds.

Not until I seduced him.

I sit up, a thought gestating. Instead of inquiring of Cas last night if my brother was angry with me, I asked him if Sam wanted a divorce. What possessed me to use that specific terminology. Unless . . . No. NO!

My omega has decided that Sam is his (my) mate.

Seriously? It's not like I've never been knotted before. (Although, not often because I prefer to be in control). But something about Sam's alpha appeals (strongly, passionately) to my omega. I want to kneel before him with my neck bared. I want to present my bare body to him. I want to climb in his lap, bury my nose in his throat. I want him to bite me, mark me, claim me.

Again, NO!

2.

Sam hunches over the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in one hand. An empty coffee pot sits in front of him, next to a bottle of aspirin. He lifts his head enough to peer at me with bloodshot eyes, grunts a greeting before dropping his grey-skinned face back into his drooping hands.

I repress a frustrating impulse to run a comforting hand through his (beautiful) hair, offer to fix breakfast. Instead, I opt for a brotherly, "Looks like you had a party without me," completing the platonic, fraternal teasing with a shoulder clap.

He groans, sinks his (clearly) aching head further into his hands.

I chuckle as I reach into the back of the tallest cupboard for a fifties-era tin. I plunk it on the table in front of Sam, who startles, winces at the sound. Ah, hangovers. The tin is filled all different varieties of chocolate. Milk, dark, white. Plain, nuts, cream-filled. Hershey's, Ghirardelli, Lindt. I'm not picky.

Sam looks interested, hazel orbs brightening for the first time this morning.

"Helps with the cravings," I inform him.

His bleary eyes only haze with confusion for a moment. "I remember. You ate a lot of chocolate last time you quit." His face clouds over.

I know what he's thinking, remembering. "Sam," I say gently, "I didn't quit because of your nagging. I mean, sure, your opinion matters to me. And that was part of it. But I wanted to quit. Smoking was slowing me down, affecting my judgment, making me a worse hunter. And a lot of girls hate the smell." I wink.

He flinches.

Right. Sam's the one I had sex with yesterday, not a girl.

There's a sigh across the table. "Does it help to know you're not the only one fighting cravings?" He smiles wryly. "It's why I got drunk, you know. Partly." He doesn't explain the other part. Doesn't need to. It's not hard to guess that my cure was incredibly emotionally stressful for my brother. "All I could think about was blood. Blood, blood. Where can get more? Could I summon a demon?" He shrugs. "Alcohol helps. So does coffee." He holds up his now empty cup. "Any kind of strong liquid, I suppose."

I search his face for any sign of reproach, find none. If anything, he looks guilty, ashamed, like it's his fault I tricked him into drinking demon blood, into renewing his old addiction. Why does he try to take the blame for everything? It's frustrating. Makes me want to hit something. Makes me want to escape, to go outside and . . . and smoke. Not happening. 

I unwrap a truffle, pop it in my mouth. Milk chocolate. Caramel filling. Mmm. My eyes drift shut. Wow. Blindly, I reach for another one. Hazelnut. Yes. "Yes." Did I say that out loud? Whatever. Ahh. This. Is. Heaven.

A strangled sound pulls me out of my chocolate-induced reverie. Sam is staring at me, pupils wide, irises scarlet. His shapely, muscular shoulders rise and fall with labored breath. His tense fingers dig into the table. Alpha musk swarms dizzyingly around the kitchen.

Once, when I was erasing my porn history from Sam's computer, I noticed that his history contained a research article on incest. It's illegal for family members to mate, but mated pairs cannot be separated without enormous suffering (often leading to death) on both sides. And there are only two ways to break a bond: death or replacement. So, as is done in cases of spousal abuse, the omega mates of siblings, parents, cousins, etc. were introduced to compatible alphas in the hopes that one of them would be a better match (a true mate) than the inappropriate family member. It usually didn't take long for the omega to go home happily with a new alpha. Sometimes, though, the omega just kept pining for his or her sibling or cousin. In these cases, the alpha relative was nearly always found to be a doting mate. And, more intriguingly, their children were healthy, perfect. No signs of inbreeding. The researchers concluded that some incestuous couples might be true mates. 

It didn't take me long to connect the presence of that study in Sam's history with my brother's behavior: the way he looked at me, the way he reacted whenever I went home with someone (especially if that someone was male), the way he always managed to stand between me and any alphas we came into contact with. My brother was into me, but he was clearly (thankfully) never going to make a move, so, in true Winchester fashion, I buried the knowledge deep within my mind. Ignored all evidence of romantic or carnal interest from my brother.

Until my demon took advantage. And my omega swooned.

And I'm not ready for this.

I need to distract us both.

"Sam," I begin, "Cas says it's quiet out there. So, I was thinking we should get out of here for awhile."

He looks up, eyes once again hazel.

"Let's go to that lake you like."

3.

The lake is a gorgeous spot that feels secluded, but isn't. The beauty of nature or the comfort of civilization, depending on which direction (from our cabin) I drive the Impala. Best of both worlds.

I find Sam napping on a reclining lawn chair near the water. Shirtless. Gorgeously toned golden-brown skin. Dark hair curling across his chest, tickling the lower edge of his tattoo. I study the stark, black, smooth lines of his ink. Fresh and new, because he had to replace it only a few months ago. Thanks to Gadreel. And me.

Sam murmurs something that sounds like my name, shifts his position, causing his muscles to flex, ripple. I glance up. His sunglasses sit slightly askew on his face. I can almost see one gently shut eye. His cheeks are gaunter than they were before Metatron stabbed me, proof of weeks spent studying, searching, stressing. He's still as handsome as ever. His soft red lips drop open so that he can say my name more clearly.

"Dean. Dean, what are you doing?" Sam's voice is sleep-rough and slurred, but lucid. He's awake.

"I was" perving on you while you slept "looking for you."

"Oh." He sits up, winces when he accidentally lifts his injured arm to smother his yawn. "Did you need something?" He removes his sunglasses, pulls on his v-neck, flannel, arm sling. 

I fail to repress my whimper of disappointment.

A warm hand falls on my shoulder. A tender voice rumbles in my ear. "Are you all right?--We can leave if you want."

He misinterpreted my pitiful sound. Because of course he did. I've given him no indication that my feelings towards him have changed. But, really, what am I waiting for? He's an alpha; I'm an omega. I want him; he wants me. More than that: we're in love. My hesitance is ridiculous. 

I cover his hand with my own, use my other hand to pull his head down, press my lips to his.

He jumps, backs up rapidly. "What are you doing?"

I raise an eyebrow. "And here I thought you were the smart one." I sidle up to him, kiss him again. This time, he responds. Enthusiastically. Opening his mouth, twisting my nipples, squeezing my bottom. Pushing me up against the nearest tree.

I'm slick and more than ready, but "Let's take this inside." I whisper in his ear before taking off, running to our cabin. No alpha can resist chasing his omega. I hear Sam's feet pound after me. I race faster, but he only matches my speed, deliberately waiting to catch me. Just as I step onto the porch, a powerful arm snakes around my waist. I grin, spin around.

Sam leans forward. "Are you sure?" The hand on my hip trembles.

I cup his face. "Very sure."

Eyes that are more red than hazel peer earnestly into mine (which, I suspect, are more gold than green). "Because," he adds, "if I knot you, I won't be able to stop myself from claiming you."

I gasp. Slick gushes from my channel, trickles down my leg. "Then don't."

Fifteen passionate, intense, overwhelmingly pleasurable minutes later, Sam's fangs sink into my neck just as his swollen knot ties us together.


End file.
